To Your Front
by Gargoyle13
Summary: Illness strikes Gawain in battle. Tristran offers words of advice. A short little fic.


**Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own. How does the saying go: if wishes were horses…yeah…except substitute Knights for horses…oh yeah. **

**This one's been cooking for a while. It's a shortie. Was going through a rough period when a dear friend reminded me to take care of myself before I worried about others. That the battle, the front, would always be waiting…and you know what – she was right, it always is.**

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Putrid scents assailed Gawain's nose. Blood. Sweat. Vomit. Battle cries echoed in his ears; Bors' bellow; Arthur's command to tighten up. From the sounds of it, the Woads were retreating to wherever it was they had sprung from this time. Gawain inhaled deeply, trying to steady himself and immediately wished he hadn't as the smells came again, so strongly that their salt and sour taste invaded his mouth. His head jerked to the side and he shuddered as the pain began pounding worse in his skull. The pain brought churning in his stomach. Fire raced upward and the big man was powerless to stop it. Gawain felt his back arch and arms stiffen reflexively, even as his mouth opened to allow the vile liquid passage. There was not much left in his stomach, so the vomit had slowed to a trickle amid the gasps and groans wracking the large frame.

He'd been ill yesterday and not felt much better this morn when they had been ordered to provide assistance to a Roman squadron encountering Woad difficulties. Arthur had argued against the Knights being sent: "...the Knights have been staggered by illness and injury..." Arthur's words had fallen on deaf ears; the order had been given; the Knights saddled up and rode out. Gawain was confused by fever, reactions slowed and the workhorse's strength sapped. At one point, he was unsure (and rather unconcerned) if he was killing Woads or Romans – they all died the same.

In the midst of remembering, Gawain heard the rustle of leaves and crack of branches. Someone was approaching, though not very stealthily. His axe was under his right hand but he was unsure if he possessed the strength or desire to defend himself. Truthfully, with the pain spreading from his head to the rest of his body, unending churning in his stomach and raging fever, Gawain wondered if perhaps death wouldn't be favourable.

Hands reached down, pulling long, filthy locks away from his face, tying them loosely and tucking them into his jerkin. A hand flattened on his back, pressure telling him not to move. A quiet scraping sound that Gawain's ear knew as the unmistakable sound of a sword being unsheathed. He closed his eyes and waited. The hand never moved or released pressure; the sword never fell. After what seemed hours, Gawain opened his eyes and saw the long, curved blade hovering just in front of his shoulder.

"Tristran," he croaked.

No sound came from the scout; he merely pressed harder on his prone brother's back to silence him. Gawain again closed his eyes and concentrated on choking back the round of vomit crawling up. He focused his attention on the swishing sound of Tristran's blade cutting through the air, wondering what his brother was doing. He didn't have time to contemplate too deeply before losing another battle against his stomach.

Gasping and shaking with the heaves, Gawain heard footsteps dimly pounding towards them. The person they belonged to skidded to a stop just in front of him.

"Gawain...Gawain...look at me...Gawain..." Dag's voice was commanding but soft, as if speaking to a child. He tilted Gawain's face to him. "Damn them...you should not be here..." His voice trailed off as he dug for a small pouch on his belt. "Tristran, stay with him while I get some water." Dagonet hurried off toward the small stream they had passed on the way.

Tristran's hand remained steady on Gawain's back, his sword held at the ready. No words came from the scout, yet Gawain took comfort in simply having the man's hand on his back. It calmed the roiling in his stomach and seemed to ease the ache in his head. Gawain began to stand, only to be pushed back down, firmly, by the single hand in the middle of his back.

"But...the front...the others...the battle..." Gawain tried weakly to protest the forced complacency, though secretly he was glad for it; his head was again throbbing and his vision blurred from that little effort.

He felt the breath of the scout on his ear as his brother leaned in, whispering, "The front can wait. Take care of yourself; then you can take care of others. The front will always be there, brother, and always in need of workhorses."

Pounding footsteps alerted them to Dag's return with water for mixing whatever abysmal concoction he was going to foist upon Gawain. As Dag knelt down, mixing the herbs and water, Tristran removed his hand. Before Gawain or Dag could say anything, Tristran had moved off toward the front, brandishing his dao, daring any wayward Woad (or Roman) to come and test his prowess.


End file.
